


What spring does with the cherry trees

by Plumasicera



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Iwaizumi Hajime, Established Relationship, M/M, Oikawa has a kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rope Bondage, Shibari, Smut, Though in my head they totally switch, Top Oikawa Tooru
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26819707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plumasicera/pseuds/Plumasicera
Summary: “Look at you, Iwa-chan,” he breathes spreading Iwaizumi’s legs further apart, pressing his hips down into Iwaizumi’s.(It’s hot, hot, hot).“Look at me,” he says, lips like blades.Oikawa lifts his chin with two fingers and an infinite softness they both know− the kind of softness he shows in games just seconds before he steps into the court and ruthlessly tears his rivals to pieces.“I’m looking at you,” Iwaizumi bites back. “I’m always looking at you.”
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 8
Kudos: 179





	What spring does with the cherry trees

**Author's Note:**

> This ship is killing me, there´s nothing more to say, Your Honour.
> 
> A really, really big thank you to Hannah, who beated this.

_I want to do with you_  
 _what spring does with the cherry trees_  
XIV. Neruda  


Oikawa’s breath is a warm, wet puff.

“ _Ah,_ ” he says, hot and low, “look at you.”

Instead of obeying and looking down at himself Iwaizumi raises his eyes to Oikawa, kneeling between his legs. He stands over Iwaizumi half naked and glorious, with dark eyes and that barely visible blush on his cheekbones he gets when he’s aroused. He’s wearing the raggedy gray sweatpants he puts on whenever he’s at home, and the elastic waistband, worn by time and use, makes the pants slide down his hips.

Iwaizumi’s eyes follow the trail down Oikawa’s stomach that disappears under the sweatpants to the shape of his cock tightly pressed against the fabric. There’s the beginning of a dark, wet spot there, which means− no underwear on today.

Iwaizumi licks his lips and, momentarily raising his hips, repositions his back comfortably over the bed. The muscles in his abdomen tighten almost lazily− Oikawa feels them ripple under his fingertips, strong and flexible underneath the skin.

Spreading the palm of his hand against him in an intimate touch, Oikawa speaks again, the flash of teeth in his fast smile making him look feral (predatory, predatory, predatory).

“I said _look_ , Iwa-chan.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Then,” asks Oikawa leaning over him, pressing his nose against Iwaizumi’s jawline, “don’t make me repeat myself.”

Iwaizumi inhales, harsh, and Oikawa nuzzles his way down to his throat. Then he sits up and cradles Iwaizumi’s face with one hand. He caresses his cheekbone, watching him closely, and then, humming to himself, runs languid fingers over his cheek, his jaw, the curve of his throat until he stops over the pulse in his neck. He’s stopped humming and now just watches Iwaizumi, exuding the same dark devotion with which he serves, and rules, and works himself to the bone chasing every fucking victory to the end.

“Look at you,” he murmurs.

_So much skin_ , he thinks.

_God, so much skin._

It started a long time ago.

Thinking back on it they could see it begin to bloom early on, like when, as kids, Oikawa seemed both troubled and captivated by the blooming bruises over Iwaizumi’s elbows and knees after long, adventurous days playing outdoors or when, no longer kids, Oikawa would playfully press his fingers against Iwaizumi’s skin until he could see the whitening fingerprints after.

It started a long time ago, indeed, though it took Iwaizumi the longest to see it. The first time he truly realized there was _something_ there (even if it was unconscious, a nameless thought scratching at the back of his head) was during their first year of high school. They’d always helped each other out with pre-training routines and suddenly, one day, Iwaizumi found himself noticing for the first time the intense focus with which Oikawa would wrap Iwaizumi’s fingers, skillfully and with no need to ask, tightening the tape stronger than Iwaizumi would have done himself but never tight enough to bother him while playing. _Hunger_ , Iwaizumi would have said had he been able to put words to that expression, which always repeated itself afterward, when Iwaizumi ripped off the white tape and he could feel Oikawa’s eyes on him even if he was on the opposite side of the gym.

Sometimes he would tell himself that it was nothing but part of Oikawa’s pre-game mindset or post-practice mood − just the last shots of adrenaline flowing through his body.

Other times he knew it was something completely different, and his stomach would clench and shiver without a reason.

“Look at you,” he says against the side of his knee before running his hand and then his lips up over each hard line of muscle.

The first time Oikawa verbalized it was during their last year of high school, right after graduation, during that dead time before they both left for Tokyo. They’d been together for several months by then and that afternoon, seated over Iwaizumi’s hips and slowly jerking them off with barely removed clothes (wet, moaning, both of them slowly fucking into Oikawa’s tight fist) Oikawa had asked it with perplexing calm and his mouth pressed against Iwaizumi’s throat.

(Would you let me tie you up?)

That first time was naïve in a way, although back then Oikawa had already known what he wanted (he had known for a while now). Still wet and hard, Oikawa had grabbed the school necktie they no longer had to wear and he’d circled both the bedpost and Iwaizumi’s wrists, leaving him with his arms stretched over his head.

Right after he’d positioned himself over his thighs and had once again wrapped his fist around his cock, jerking him slowly, and then fast, and then slowly again, suffocating, stretching his orgasm, whispering a hot string of praising words and dirty secrets while Iwaizumi (arms flexed, muscles tensed, the fabric of the tie like fire against his skin every time he tried to forcibly put his arms down) had pushed his hips up and his head back and closed his eyes with his lips parted in a single breathless moan.

“Are you looking, hm?” he asks lovingly, teeth scraping Iwaizumi’s hipbone.

Iwaizumi’s orgasm had been unstoppable and long, and only after making him come had Oikawa leaned over Iwaizumi, kissing him (all heat, teeth, tongue) and had untied him to bring one of his wrists to this mouth. He’d jerked off with a wet sound, breath short and fast, and he’d come all over Iwaizumi’s chest moaning his name.

They had stayed like that for a few moments, with the golden sunset light bathing the bedroom and Oikawa calming his breathing after his climax: straight back, dark eyes fixed on him, Iwaizumi’s hand held against his face and the tip of his tongue (red, red, red) almost touching the flushed skin.

“Look at you, Iwa-chan,” he breathes spreading Iwaizumi’s legs further apart, pressing his hips down into Iwaizumi’s.

(It’s hot, hot, _hot_ ).

There were a few more times after that one, although Oikawa didn’t dare to do it seriously until almost two years later.

That time Oikawa had come prepared: he had brought scissors and two ropes shorter and softer than the ones they use now. It had been a rainy night in Tokyo− with shadows dancing under the shaky corner light and the constant background buzz of the rain intertwining with Oikawa’s whispered words (are you okay, Iwa-chan? Do you want to continue? Like this? Sssh, I’m right here. You’re so− _ah_ − I’m gonna tighten it a little more. _Hah_ , like this. God, Hajime. Hajime. _Hajime_ ).

(That night it’d been cold outside but Oikawa had felt fire inside him. Iwaizumi had surrendered himself to him over the bed, hair wet from the shower and eyes dark and heavy, just like the cock between his legs, and something Oikawa hadn’t intended to let loose had broken helplessly within him)

“Look at me,” he says, lips like blades.

The moments after the orgasm had been uncomfortable but only because Oikawa had immediately jumped from the bed after untying him. Iwaizumi, lying on the mattress and getting used to the strange feeling of drowsiness in his muscles, had taken several seconds to realize that Oikawa was avoiding him and a few more to understand that what prevented Oikawa from facing him was shame, as if Iwaizumi didn’t already know that he was full of shit (as if enjoying something like this was bad, as if, at this point, anything they do could tear them apart).

“Look at me,” he repeats, eyes dark and deep.

That time Iwaizumi’s headbutt had made him bleed from his two nostrils. They’d ended shouting, almost crying, and, despite everything, Iwaizumi remembers it achingly sweet, sweet, sweet.

“Look at me,” this time Oikawa’s words are almost a sigh.

Oikawa lifts his chin with two fingers and an infinite softness they both know− the kind of softness he shows in games just seconds before he steps into the court and ruthlessly tears his rivals to pieces.

Their eyes meet and Oikawa watches Iwaizumi take a deep breath in that controlled way he learnt at the beginning, when they started doing this and, gathering information, they read about the possibility of having an anxiety attack when being immobilized.

(It has never happened: Oikawa _always_ keeps an eye on him, watching and interpreting Iwaizumi’s every signal and adjusting to his rhythm.

It probably helped too that, during that rainy night, with chests torn open and hearts raw, they talked at length about what this meant and established limits to understand, define and include this new aspect in their relationship.

“It’s fine. _I’m_ fine. Fuck, it was− it wasn’t− Tooru. _God_ , Tooru−”

“I’m sorry. I don’t− I can’t− I’m _sorry_.”).

Without a word Oikawa bends over and leaves a hungry kiss over his shoulder, his chest, the intimate hollow at the base of his throat. With his thumbs he strokes the sharp V-line that goes down Iwaizumi’s lower belly.

“Yeah,” Iwaizumi sighs pushing his hips against him.

“How do you want it?” Oikawa asks in a low murmur, running his lips up his throat. Iwaizumi rolls his head back over the pillow exposing himself with a pleasant grunt and a deep breath.

“Mhmm, Tooru−”

Oikawa presses his mouth against the hot pulse of his neck, losing himself for a second in the raging flow of his blood (steady, steady, steady).

“Hajime.”

“Mmh.”

“Hajime,” he calls, moving his hand to caress his shoulder and to briefly run it down his arm. He pauses, and in the intimacy of their bedroom, as in the rest of their lives, there are no secrets between them − just raw and plain honesty.

(“Don’t decide for me. Even if you know what my answer’s going to be, don’t decide for me. Don’t make decisions without asking me ever again.”

“It’s not− It’s not that I don’t enjoy sex. And it’s not like I _need_ this. It’s just− Sometimes−”

“You know I trust you. Tooru. Listen. I trust you.”

“I don’t think I could do it anywhere else. I don’t want to do it with someone else, Iwa-chan. And I can’t do it in front of others. I don't want to− _exhibit_ ourselves. It’s not− it’s not about that. It’s _you_ ”).

Oikawa sighs.

(Alive, alive, alive).

“Hajime,” he repeats against his neck, emphatically tightening the hold of his fingers around the tender skin of his elbow pit, right below the ropes that tie him. Oikawa always, _always_ asks. “S’okay? Like this? Is this okay?”

There’re a few silent seconds, the duration of one, two, three painful heartbeats. And then−

“Yeah.”

The sigh is hoarse, with that warm undertone that is all Iwaizumi and that spills like honey over the thick tone. Closing his eyes, Oikawa tightens his grip slightly, filling himself for a moment with their complex trust and the lukewarm touch of his skin under his fingers. Their love is fierce and steady, rooted in the deepest parts of them. It seems impossible for it to be contained in just one word.

_Yeah._

“Alright,” he answers with a dry mouth.

Oikawa takes a moment to leave one last kiss on his pulse before straightening up on the bed again. Iwaizumi opens his eyes and watches him. The Grand King, he vaguely remembers Oikawa being called once on the court. Holding his breath Oikawa raises a graceful arm towards him and his fingers brush his neck and caress his jaw (long, long, long), enjoying the moment.

“Now look,” he orders quietly, sliding them down his cheek.

The Grand King, indeed.

Iwaizumi still stares at him for a few more seconds, calm breathing and piercing eyes, before he lifts his neck and looks down and indulges him.

The position is uncomfortable: the arms tied under his back keep all of his upper muscles tense and the new posture makes the thick and tight rope crossed over his chest in a geometric pattern sink deeper into his skin. Oikawa slowly runs his fingers down the sweat on his throat, drags them over the triangles of bare skin and brushes them superficially against the irritated areas under the ropes. Unhurriedly, he slides them down his body and Iwaizumi follows them with his eyes because he knows that’s what Oikawa wants.

(Ruling, ruling, ruling).

They stop around his stomach, the barest reminder of where an inner heat starts to whirl and Oikawa makes an appreciative sound at the sight. Iwaizumi’s hard cock standing up and swollen between them.

“Look at you,” Oikawa repeats, although by the way he looks down at him it seems as if he’s talking to himself.

Iwaizumi holds his gaze with a sharp expression and his chin up. Oikawa strokes his knee, contemplative, feeling the rumor that resonates within his flesh wake up hungrily.

_Ah, so perfect._

The art of bondage is a subtle one and, as such, it requires balance, control and skill.

For Oikawa, it shares such a similar essence with volleyball that he’s internally convinced that he could describe one while thinking about the other and no one would ever notice.

“You see,” he’d start calmly during one of those late celebrations with his team when, replaying the game, they’d ask him how he manages to always pull off the best sets. They’d be at their usual izakaya, after the euphoria of triumph and with the placid drowsiness of food and night and alcohol, and Oikawa would speak in that slow, calculating way that comes out of his mouth whenever he’d let his guard down enough to feel a little bit drunk and, to compensate it, he stands twice as alert as usual.

“You see,” he’d say with a liquid smile and a golden gaze under the yellow lamps, nothing but Iwaizumi filling his mind, “the most important thing is− ah, you have to feel it. Right here, in your fingertips. It all depends on being able to find the perfect strength, the one position, the right pressure. Not for you, but for what your partner wants, for what he can endure. It has to feel _good_ _−_ ”

But it’s not the connection with volleyball what attracts him, nor its beauty, nor its obvious visual eroticism. Not even the undeniable amount of power that comes with it.

_Please_ , Oikawa thinks, mentally rolling his eyes. Whenever they feel like immersing themselves in a dom/sub dynamic, regardless of which role they play at the time, neither he nor Iwaizumi need something as trivial as a rope between them.

To Oikawa, it isn’t about that.

Actually it’s something way more prosaic.

_So much skin_.

“Look at you…”

Oikawa closes his fingers over a rope and pulls on it until it tightens. Automatically Iwaizumi curves his back on the bed, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply. Oikawa slides his hand under his back, grasping another one of the ropes that crosses it, and pulls again watching the powerful display of his muscles tensing, the wordless pleasure concentrating on his slightly furrowed brow, on his held breath, on the throb of his cock.

“So beautiful,” he says, hungrily eyeing the taut tendons when Iwaizumi rolls his head back, lips parting in silent pleasure. “So strong.”

When Oikawa loosens his grip and Iwaizumi lies back down, his chest shines with a thin layer of sweat.

“Tooru,” he breathes out, opening his eyes and staring at him. The sharp angle of his clenched jaw could cut the air between them. “Kiss me.”

Oikawa feels a tug down his stomach and runs his tongue over his lower lip slowly, watching him, _scheming_. Even slower he leans over Iwaizumi until their faces are only inches apart. The distant echo of the falling afternoon sneaks into the bedroom for a second during that invisible lapse of time in which Iwaizumi feels Oikawa breathe over his mouth and lifts his chin to meet him, but Oikawa changes direction at the last second and presses his lips against his bare throat in a wet kiss.

“Iwa-chan,” he murmurs against his neck. He pulls away a little and then he brushes his lips against his temple. “Did you really think it’d be that easy?”

Iwaizumi closes his eyes and parts his lips, throat working, but his words are slow to come out. When they do, they are vulnerable and wounding and nothing but true.

“Tooru,” he says raw and hoarse and sure. “Tooru. I love you.”

Oikawa makes a strangled, frustrated noise with his throat. He lowers his head and now his forehead is the one pressed hard against Iwaizumi’s temple.

“Iwa-chan. I’m gonna do so many things to you apart from kissing.”

Iwaizumi turns his face, sliding their cheeks together. They are so close they breathe each other in.

“Are you now?” he asks in a thick voice, the dark murmur of his whisper transforming into something without a name.

“Yeah. So many, many things.”

Slowly their hips rock against each other and they moan. Oikawa fits his lips under his ear, in that point where it joins the jaw:

“I’m gonna take you apart really, really slowly, and you’re gonna feel so good, Iwa-chan, _so_ good. I promise. We’re gonna fuck slow and hot and deep, _god_ , so deep−”

“ _Yes_ _,_ ” Iwaizumi says with heavy breathing and, oh, he’s definitely anxious, Oikawa thinks while leaving a new kiss on his throat, longer and more intense than the previous one, without really knowing if he’s thinking about Hajime or himself.

This time Oikawa runs his hands down his chest, not just his fingers: he presses his palms against him, hooks the short nails on the ropes and pulls slowly at the knots burning him with a pleasant pressure on different erogenous zones with the expertise of someone who knows what he’s doing.

Bondage is a subtle art, certainly, and Oikawa is a master of the craft.

“Like this?” he asks, saccharine sweet.

Iwaizumi closes his eyes and groans at the first wave of pleasure. The touch burns, his body tenses and Oikawa sinks his fingers in his chest.

“I could come just with this,” he says like a secret and, _fuck_. The best dirty-talker Oikawa has always been honest-Oikawa. “Watching you like this, all because of me. And you could come just with this too, mh?”

One hand pulls at the ropes again while the other one trails down his stomach, low, and then lower.

“One day I’m gonna tie you up _completely_. I bet it’d feel good, ropes sinking into your groin and _god_ , the marks I’d leave on your thighs. Maybe here too, mh?” he asks wrapping his fingers around the thick base of his erection. When he starts jerking him off, slow and tight, Iwaizumi’s hips buck upwards. “Not too strong, just tight enough, keeping you up and firm for me.”

Oikawa presses his thumb against the head, pre-come slippery, and leans over his neck.

“That way I could ride you slow and good” he breathes against his throat. _Yes_ , Iwaizumi says, low and guttural. _Yes_ , thrusting with his hips. Oikawa slides his nose down his throat, from side to side, and sighs.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely, swallowing hard, “yeah, I’d really like that. Maybe next time.”

With a kiss to his throat, Oikawa pulls away and removes his hands. Iwaizumi lowers his hips with a shiver; his cock swollen and red, the flesh on his chest and arms sensitive and flushed. All of him looks liquid and pliable like molten steel, and Oikawa, carnivorous, moves his fingers along his side while pressing them tenderly against him.

“God, look at you−”

Iwaizumi hisses and tenses against the ropes. It’s not _pain_ , but when Oikawa presses his fingers right against the abrasions on his flesh, the itch of the reddened skin comes pretty close to it. It _burns_. Good and deep, just like Oikawa himself.

“Fuck, Tooru.”

Oikawa looms over him, head bowed over Iwaizumi’s chest and eyes raised and set on his, darkened by an avid glow the bangs fail to hide. Without breaking eye contact Oikawa opens his mouth and Iwaizumi watches saliva gather behind his teeth, and then he watches the way Oikawa slowly sticks out his tongue to make it fall in a thread on his chest.

“ _Tooru_ _,_ ” he says, voice hoarser than ever, biceps bulging when he flexes them within its restraints.

Oikawa bends and runs his tongue over the burning mark of one of the ropes, blowing after.

“Ssh, I know. I know.”

Oikawa slides his fingers under another one of the tight ropes and drags them over his chest, trailing the line burned over Iwaizumi’s skin in a lovely shade of red until he’s pressing them against his side. He’s once again humming a made up song to himself and the tone of the melody changes softly, falls and lifts harmoniously as his fingers walk over the ribs as if counting them.

“I like seeing you like this,” he says in a low murmur, just for the two of them. Iwaizumi’s always been amused by this; that he can say it so easily but that every time Oikawa says ‘I love you’ the word ‘love’ never comes out of his mouth. “I like it when you look at me and I can see what you’re thinking.”

Oikawa stops his fingers when, on their way down, they come upon a new rope. Skillfully, he twists them until they slide under it.

“Ah,” he sighs, grabbing onto the rope from the tiny space underneath, “and to know that you can see what I’m thinking… To know that you can see it too…”

“Yeah?” Iwaizumi asks hoarsely, heartbeat pounding loud in his ears.

Like magnets, their eyes meet. Without looking away Oikawa closes his fingers tightly around the rope, like a death sentence, and his fangs seem sharper than ever.

“That’s what I like the most,” he whispers, and then he twists his wrist and tightens the rope and _moves_ it, he moves it down to place it over a nipple and then he _tugs_ , he tugs, tightening it and making the hemp slide like sandpaper against it. The pleasure is sudden and raw and Iwaizumi groans while throwing his head back and closing his eyes. Instinctively he tries to move the arms held under his back; Oikawa sees the biceps tighten in an impossible way against the ropes, blood rushing furiously under his muscles, ropes digging deeper and deeper into his flesh.

It doesn’t take long for it to redden, irritated and over-stimulated and sensitive, abs clenching, cock leaking, and Oikawa leans a little closer to take it in, to take it all, gaze still and fascination hanging from his pupils.

“Look at you,” he says pushing down with his hips, pulling at the rope inch by inch. “Look at you, Hajime.”

_“Hah_ , fuck−”

Oikawa knows Iwaizumi must be feeling as if he were in flames. He knows he’ll keep feeling that way even after he manages to regain control over himself and relax his muscles within the asphyxiating embrace Oikawa has wrapped them into. He also knows it won’t take him long to do it (otherwise they wouldn’t be _here_ ) so he lets go of the rope and gives him a break. While he waits he indulges himself and watches his strong, panting body; he bathes in the contrast of rough ropes and soft skin; he imagines (and his hands tremble at this) the blossoming marks he knows will be there once they are finished.

“Iwa-chan,” he says stroking the hard line of his jaw with a thumb, leaning slowly over him− a contradictory and yet harmonious mess of softness and sharp edges, of power and surrender, of tremor and strength.

“Iwa-chan,” he repeats.

“Stop looking at me like that,” grunts Iwaizumi.

“I can’t.”

“ _Oikawa_.”

“I can’t.”

He sounds almost sincere, the bastard, as if he really was sorry, and if Iwaizumi didn’t know him better he’d probably believe him.

“I wish you could see yourself,” Oikawa whispers, licking his lips, voice dipping low and dark. “Hajime.”

Oikawa slides a hand over his cheek until his thumb is pressed against his parted lips. He introduces it little by little, slowly, pressing it firmly against his tongue and Iwaizumi lets him and parts his lips a bit more feeling the taste of sweat (salt, salt, salt) spilling inside his mouth while Oikawa watches everything with blown pupils.

_Ah, fuck_.

Oikawa has that stifling and heavy way of looking that makes people look away, incapable of enduring it. Iwaizumi has had all of his adolescence to get used to having that look always on him from the other side of the court, the room, and finally the bed, and he’s used to feeling analyzed, torn apart and reduced to the smallest detail because that’s just what Oikawa does− that’s just what Oikawa _is_. But having him like this at this moment −eight inches away from him, burning, with his finger in his mouth and ruthlessly taking him apart with his eyes− is not enough. A wave of heat rises up Iwaizumi’s throat and makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and without missing a beat (always in total, perfect synchrony) Oikawa bends over him and slowly licks his lips.

He slides his tongue into his mouth; Iwaizumi tries to meet him but Oikawa presses harder with his thumb, immobilizing him, and he’s forced to wait while Oikawa reaches as far as he can with the intrusion of his finger, giving long licks to the palate, the retained tongue, the edge of a fang− retreating to press a short kiss to his lower lip and leaving another one at the corner of his mouth before finally sliding the thumb out and kissing him properly.

This is in no way the first time they kiss. It’s not going to be the last, either, but by the way they kiss it might seem so, thirsty and eager like starving animals. Oikawa leans on his forearms on either side of Iwaizumi’s head for support, and neither stops until the amount of heat and dizziness overtakes them and they’re forced to part with a gasp, breathing heavily the same stale and feverish air in the minimal space between their mouths.

“Kiss me,” Iwaizumi orders against his cheek with hot breath and a hard voice, and Oikawa lifts his face with soft fingers under his jaw and guides him back to his lips.

“I love you,” he says harshly when their mouths part a second time. Oikawa has his eyes closed, and Iwaizumi sees him opening his lips but no words come out, just a shuddering breath. _Ah, Tooru_ , he thinks. _Sweet, beautiful, painful Tooru_. “Tooru−”

Iwaizumi presses his forehead against Oikawa’s temple. Nuzzles his cheekbone and then buries his face in his hair. It’s damp with sweat, but still Iwaizumi recognizes the clean smell of his shampoo mixed with the smell of sex that floods the room. Under his back, he curls his fingers with a tickling sensation. How he wishes he could bury them in the wet strands at the back of Oikawa’s neck, slide them down the curve of his spine and sink them in the small of his back, slide them a little lower and sink them somewhere else−

“Look at me,” Oikawa repeats for the umpteenth time, and Iwaizumi realizes that now _he_ has closed his eyes. “Look at _me,_ ” Oikawa commands, his voice heavy with so many different things (love, demand, plea, surrender).

“I’m looking at you,” Iwaizumi bites back. “I’m always looking at you.”

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that they are giving everything they have and yet Oikawa looks at him that way, hard, in a haze of desire, of promises, of adoration, as if asking permission to push them beyond the edge.

(Oikawa always, always, _always_ asks).

“ _Hajime_.”

Their eyes meet, Oikawa swallows him and Iwaizumi’s mouth runs dry. _He’s beautiful_ , Iwaizumi thinks fiercely, achingly, as if he’d never seen him before, as if he’d never told him, but right here, right now, he cannot describe him with other words.

He’s beautiful.

In this moment, Oikawa is eternal.

“Go on,” Iwaizumi says, and that’s all Oikawa was waiting for.

He’s fast. One moment Oikawa’s next to the bed (pants on the floor, cock wet and hard) picking up what he’s going to need and the next the mattress is sinking again under his weight, bent knees sliding under Iwaizumi’s legs, warm hands touching raised hips. Iwaizumi hears the _plop!_ sound of the lube when Oikawa opens it, and a few seconds later Oikawa’s thumbs are slipping inside him.

The groan is immediate, harsh. A short, sharp sound with teeth biting down on his lip and head thrown back. Oikawa hums spreading his fingers over Iwaizumi’s thighs, steadying him, and then he sinks his thumbs a little more and begins to rub small circles inside him, opening him bit by bit.

“Yeah,” he says as if he was the one being open. “Get ready now.”

Iwaizumi holds his breath while Oikawa inserts the full length of his thumbs and then stops them, feeling the hot flesh pulsing around. Unhurriedly, he presses them against the inner walls and Iwaizumi closes his eyes, groaning again. Oikawa _knows_ how to use his hands. The thumbs slide out, massaging his rim, and then slide back in and open him a little, and then a little more, and suddenly Oikawa’s cock is shoving between them, opening him almost all the way up.

Iwaizumi’s body tenses up violently, anticipating the burning pain as every one of his nerves pushes against him but Oikawa pulls back before he gets to enter him. Iwaizumi pants but Oikawa doesn’t give him time to recover and he tenses up again when Oikawa pushes the head of his erection against him one more time, though once again he pulls back after barely pressing the head between his fingers. He repeats it again and again, and Iwaizumi throws his head back on the pillow, breathing heavily.

“Fuck,” he pants drawling the word. “ _Fuck…!_ ”

Part of him (a dark, wild one) wants Oikawa to go all the way in, to force him open, burning and raw like the feeling of fire along his muscles, but Oikawa just keeps himself pressing in a superficial way− breathing increasingly heavy but still with a firm steady hand. 

“God, Hajime,” he pants with every non-thrust. “You’re doing so, so _good_ − Let me be good for you too, I wanna− I’m gonna− Hah, I’m gonna make you feel so _fucking_ _great_ −”

Iwaizumi groans, long and low. It’s so rare to actually hear Oikawa swear. He opens his eyes and watches him− Oikawa’s chest is beaded with sweat, shoulders bent forward, arms full of restrained tension while he ruts against him. His face is slightly tilted, half in shadow, eyes clouded with desire and fixed on him. His lips are parted, panting, letting out all those fucking pretty sounds and once again Iwaizumi feels a strong tingle in his fingers and he closes and opens his hands repeatedly under his back wishing he could grab him, push the hair away from his eyes and pull him down towards himself, _fuck_ , push him all the way in−

Suddenly Iwaizumi finds himself held face down on his stomach, cheek pressed against a pillow and Oikawa’s fingers softly closing around the back of his neck holding him in place when he tries to turn around. 

“What…” he manages in a throaty, heated voice.

Oikawa lets go of him but instead of going back to prep him he wraps his hands around Iwaizumi’s clenched fists and gently coaxes them open, massaging his palms, soothing the built up tension, bringing the blood back.

“Relax, Hajime.”

Iwaizumi stands still for a moment, taking in the touch of Oikawa’s hands on his; then he buries his face in the pillow and takes a deep breath, the broad muscles of his back tightening briefly before relaxing completely. Oikawa’s hands move to run along the length of his triceps, and from there to walk his fingertips along the arch of his shoulders. Then they slide lower, brushing reverently over the ropes. He lets his weight fall upon him; Iwaizumi says nothing, but buries his forehead further into the pillow, baring his nape and, _fuck_ , he’s had a lifetime to fall in love with him, hard, over and over again, and he’s experienced enough to know he’s doing it all again.

“Tooru,” he calls sharply. Rationally he knows this is necessary. He trusts Tooru, really −fuck, he’s trusted him in this from minute one, as well as in everything else− and he knows these changes in rhythm are necessary and he knows Tooru knows what he’s doing and that he’s doing it _for him_ but fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , he can’t stop now. “ _Tooru_ −”

Oikawa presses his forehead against his back and when he speaks his breath hits him, hot and humid.

“One sec. Just one sec,” he answers in a choked voice.

Iwaizumi rubs his hips against the mattress though it’s not easy to move with Oikawa’s weight on top of him. He can feel him against his thigh, familiar, hard and ready and not close enough.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , Tooru.”

It wouldn’t be the first time they fuck like this, pressed together, barely moving, just sliding against each other over the slippery sweat, moaning softly. Both of them have been in this position before; they know it, they _like_ it, always so tight, so hot, flesh opening slowly at the merciless, unrelenting thrusts. A warm splash of pre-cum spurts from him and Iwaizumi clenches his jaw suppressing a moan.

God, he needs something, and he needs it now.

“Too− _Hah.”_

Oikawa shoves two fingers inside him, long and unexpected, and he doesn’t stop until they are all the way in and he has Iwaizumi inhaling deeply through his mouth.

Pulling back, Oikawa kneels between his legs and places his other hand on the small of his back holding him against the bed as he begins to move his fingers in and out, slicked with a fresh layer of lube.

“Keep going,” Iwaizumi pants, turning his face over the pillow.

“Like this?” Oikawa asks shoving them in again.

“Yes.”

“Like _this_?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Iwaizumi hisses pushing his hips against the mattress and the messy sheets.

Oikawa runs his hand up his spine. Curving his fingers, he hooks the ropes and pulls gently but without stopping, forcing Iwaizumi to get up on his knees and lean back heavily on his chest.

“I love you,” Oikawa sighs against his neck. Iwaizumi throws his head back over his shoulder and pants, fingers working inside him. “I love you so much. I told you. We’re gonna− _hah_ … we’re gonna fuck so good, _I’m_ gonna fuck you so good. Slow and hot and− _ah_ , deep.”

“Fuck” Iwaizumi grunts. “Fuck, like this−”

Oikawa sinks his fingers into him over and over again without rest (and, yes, deep, deep, _deep_ ), opening them, opening _him_ , knowing his limits and his rhythm just as Iwaizumi knows his, pressing until he reaches the dividing line between what he can and he cannot endure.

“Hajime,” he mouths against his ear.

“I know.”

“ _Hajime_ −”

“ _I know_.”

Oikawa skillfully begins to undo the knots; he lets touch guide him so he hardly needs to look, and soon enough Iwaizumi is once again able to separate his arms from his body. As soon as he can he brings an arm back until he grabs Oikawa by the back of his neck and, without letting go, he turns his head until they’re kissing over his shoulder. Oikawa’s hand closes around his flexed bicep, thumb stroking the burning marks on his skin, and then he moans darkly against his jaw.

“Let me…”

“Say it.”

“Please, please, Hajime−”

“Do it.”

Oikawa wraps an arm around his waist and moves him until he’s lying on his back over the bed. Closing his fingers around his hips he lifts them and once again kneels before him, sliding his knees under him and making Iwaizumi wrap his thighs around him.

He’s quick to prepare. The condom rolls down easily over his cock and he applies lube profusely. When he slides into him he does so without stopping, pushing slowly but firmly. They both moan in the process, Iwaizumi from the heat of being open and Oikawa from the heat of pushing through. He doesn’t stop until he’s completely inside, closing his eyes and hugging Iwaizumi’s thighs tightly against him.

“Hajime−”

“Yeah,” he groans.

Those few seconds always seem eternal. Iwaizumi feels each one of them throbbing in his throat, in his body, in Oikawa inside him. When he begins to thrust, he does it slowly, coming almost all the way out before thrusting back in, fluid movements of hips that grow in strength and rhythm. Iwaizumi digs his fingers into his hip, slides them down to his ass and squeezes hard, pulling him closer. He groans when he hits his prostate, tension building inside him, the wet noise of Oikawa pounding into him filling his ears.

“Fuck, Hajime−”

Iwaizumi reaches out and, finally, he sinks his hand in his hair. The fingers brush the bangs away from his eyes and close on the wet nape, drawing Oikawa towards him. With a rough caress he trails them up to his cheek, and he runs his thumb over his lower lip. Oikawa moans, tightening the grip on his thighs, placing a palm on his chest, over loose ropes and flesh and heart.

“Like this?” he pants, fucking into him. It’s not concern that drips from his voice now. “Hah, do you think you can take it?”

“Fuck− _harder_ −”

“Do you think you can take _me_?”

“I can take you. I can _always_ take you.”

Oikawa slows down his speed, angling his hips up and fucking into him slowly, watching himself stretch Iwaizumi’s rim.

“You gonna cum? You gonna cum like this?”

“Are _you_ gonna make me cum?” Iwaizumi asks, hips undulating, fucking himself on his cock. 

Oikawa moans again.

“Everything” he says, dark and so fucking intense, “I’ll do everything you want me to.”

Iwaizumi’s hand tightens on his face, becoming borderline painful.

“Look at us,” he says brazenly. “ _Look at_ _us_.”

“I am,” Oikawa answers muffled against his palm. “God, I _am._ ”

Oikawa’s eyes remain fixed on his and only pull away when Iwaizumi wraps the hand that isn’t holding his face around his cock, setting a quick pace that Oikawa’s eyes follow hungrily. His hips sink deeper into him, making them moan, pulling each other in, needing to touch and to be touched.

“Harder,” Iwaizumi orders, feeling the orgasm build up.

Securing his knees on the bed, Oikawa begins a series of increasingly faster and deeper movements, turning his face until his lips rest against Iwaizumi’s hot palm without taking his eyes off him. They’re a tight knot of flesh, a tight knot of blood and sweat and white heat that breaks through them like a volcano. Oikawa fucks into him and gives himself completely, giving Iwaizumi everything he has and everything Iwaizumi could want, and Iwaizumi breathes, breathes, breathes, letting the pleasure destroy him inside out, feeling it building up in that point of pure, liquid fire inside him, jerking off furiously with his cramped hand and− _God,_ with Oikawa thrusting, thrusting, thrusting and moaning voicelessly against him, filling him up until Iwaizumi can’t take it anymore and he spills out, cumming, cumming white and thick and hot, digging his fingers hard into Oikawa’s face, burying them in his hair and forcing his head back.

“Yes, Tooru,” he pants, hips fucking into the air with powerful thrusts. “So good, so fucking good−”

He cums and moans and Oikawa hisses, “ _Yeah,”_ he hisses “ _More,”_ head still forced back but eyes fixed down on him, dark and deep and proud, still fucking into him, and Iwaizumi’s sated and full and fucking spent and it is too much but he wants to see Oikawa like this too.

“Inside,” he says hoarsely. “You can come inside,” he says.

Oikawa’s moves falter for a moment, studying him, and then he closes his eyes and thrusts into him hard.

“Fuck,” he groans, biting down his lip. His hips crash into Iwaizumi, nails digging into the flesh of his thighs, pleasure growing fast inside him. He looks down at him and Iwaizumi looks so done, with his teeth clenched and eyes closed and gasping hard at every thrust, cock still swollen and red, and Oikawa looks at the milky trail over his abdomen, at the transitory beauty of the marks across his chest, his arms, the intricate and almost violent pattern marked on the skin, he looks at all that love and a few thrusts later he’s coming, slamming his hips against him, throwing his head back and revealing the graceful arch of his throat in a low, breathless moan.

He collapses over him, pressing his forehead against Iwaizumi’s shoulder, both breathing heavily. After a few moments he pulls himself slowly from him and Iwaizumi’s breath hitches for a second when the head finally comes out.

“’m sorry” Oikawa murmurs, kissing his collarbone and discarding the condom. Iwaizumi slides one hand down his sweaty back and they kiss deeply, lovingly. The ropes that still hang loosely over Iwaizumi’s chest dig into both of them and his cum is still thick and warm on his stomach but neither of them care.

“No,” Iwaizumi says while Oikawa mouths at his throat. “No, you are not.”

Oikawa doesn’t answer; instead, with quick fingers, he finishes untying the last knots connecting the ropes, making Iwaizumi lift his back to gather them and drop them on the floor. He keeps kissing his throat, his jaw, movements languid and still vaguely sexual, coaxing him to relax and give in to all his pent-up exhaustion. He begins massaging his forearms, going over the tendons in gentle movements, knowingly and feather-light. Iwaizumi has closed his eyes− his breathing is calm and his face is relaxed but Oikawa knows he isn’t asleep.

“S’okay? Is this okay?” he asks quietly.

Iwaizumi’s voice is scratchy when he answers, still impossibly warm.

“Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I've just made a twitter, you can come and talk to me [here](https://twitter.com/plumas_icera).  
> !


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